I don’t think I’ve slept on the floor since I was a kid. I’m lying on my back facing the ceiling, my head aligned with the lamp. My hands rest on my stomach as it rises and falls beneath the covers. I peer up at the bed, considering crawling up into it, but then I get a whiff of that smell and change my mind.
I think about the box beneath the floor and whatever other secrets might be buried there. I think about beneath the bones of this house, into the dirt with the bunny burrows, further down to the fossils, and deep into the sediment. I think about the center of the earth, its metal core, and how it’s like an empty embryo in the stomach of our planet. I ponder what secrets the earth may be hiding there, in the deepest layer of itself. I think about what it must be like to be inside, to be cradled in the center of the earth.
My eyes flash open back into the dark room. I turn on the lamp and take down the box from the dresser. I look through the letters, putting them into a timeline.
I pick the second earliest, dated 1977, and begin to read,
“Do you remember that day we took the jeep up to the dunes? I still have the picture. We're some little trio, aren’t we? We played in the crystal green water like children and watched the sunset on the top of the tallest dune.
I didn’t really have much until I met Richie. He was the one who made our little group, who brought us all together. I don’t think I could ever be grateful enough for that. I wish I could talk the way Richie does. He’s smooth, suave with his talkin’. Makes it easy to get the girls. But words have always failed me. It’s like trying to talk with my tongue swollen. But writing makes it easy. It’s like the language my heart speaks is foreign, even to myself, and when I try to tell you how I feel, it comes out mistranslated. But with writing, I can put the pen into my heart’s hand and let it write the words itself.
Maybe someday I can tell you these words or give you these letters. Maybe someday I can hold your hand.”
As I read those last few words, I feel my stomach churn uneasily. I feel like an archaeologist. Felix’s letters are like precious artifacts filled with hope, but with my future hindsight, I know that hope will be squandered. I wonder, helplessly, if he ever did get to hold her hand. If he ever did, tell her how he felt. But I doubt it.
My thoughts are interrupted as Peyton opens the door.
“Hey, lights out,” he whispers. “You have a job interview tomorrow, so you have to rest up.”
“Job interview?” I ask, standing.
“I called my boss and asked for a favor. The interview’s at four.” Peyton explains.
“You have a job?” I ask.
“Yeah, I work for a tech company,” Peyton explains.
“What about school?” I inquire.
“I’m taking a gap year right now,” Peyton says.
“Every word you just said was extremely boring,” I groan.
“Well, boring pays the bills,” Peyton says. “So, lights out,”
I reach over and switch off the lamp.
I’ve been back in town for almost two days now, and the need for a job hadn't even crossed my mind once. I can’t seem to imagine a future here, not because I’m holding myself back, but because I still feel unwelcome. I’ve noticed how people will stare at me on the street, whispering behind their hands. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. And apparently, everyone knows about the Christmas party.
. . .
The last time I wore a suit was for my cousin’s bar mitzvah. I stand awkwardly in front of the mirror, trying to see myself from all angles. Peyton’s suit hangs loosely off my figure, the sleeves slipping slightly down past my knuckles. I roll them up and strap a belt across my waist.
“How are we looking?” Peyton yells from behind the door.
“Almost ready!” I yell back. I quickly comb through my hair with my fingers before opening the door. “Don’t I need a resume or something?” I ask.
“No, it's just an oral interview. She’ll ask a few questions, and if she likes your answers, you’ll get a call back for a second interview. Simple as that.”
Peyton drives us into the busiest part of town, where the buildings are tall and corporate. We stop in front of a gray-brick building with dark-tinted windows. The inside is sleek and modern, everything either stark black or ivory white. An elegant lamp in the shape of an atom hangs from the ceiling. Peyton leads me into a large office and closes the door behind us. The office is almost entirely decorated with plants, like an indoor jungle. Somewhere amongst the plants is a standing desk and roller chair. A fierce, middle-aged woman in a striped sweater and suit coat is sitting behind the desk.
“So, you must be William. Peyton was telling me your job searching,” she begins, crossing her hands out in front of her. “I’m Georgia. I run the I.T department. Why don’t you take a seat and tell me about yourself?”
The next half an hour is a blur. I turn myself into a robot, returning every question with a generic answer, every output with input. Peyton adds in once in a while, trying to make me sound like a fit candidate.
“We’ll be in touch,” Georgia says politely. Suddenly, it’s over. We walk back to the car, and I collapse into the passenger seat.
“You did good in there,” Peyton says, strapping the seat belt across his chest. “Sounds like Georgie may consider you for a second interview.”
“Did I? I zoned out through most of that,” I yawn.
“Well, don’t zone on the job, alright?” Peyton teases. “Let’s go get some ramen to celebrate.”
On a corner, there’s an authentic Japanese ramen bar. In the window, there’s a yellow neon cat raising and lowering its right paw. We sit down at the booth and order two of the largest, hottest bowls they have. Steam wafts off the broth, caressing my face with warmth. On a cold day like today, this is heaven.
“Thank you…for today,” I say. “And for the room. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
“What are friends for?” Peyton teases.
“I really want to give this my all. I don’t want to mess this up.” I say nervously, picking at a piece of sweetcorn with my chopsticks.
Peyton pats me on the back and does his trademark smile. But this time, something’s different; not so much in his smile, but in the way, I feel seeing it. I stare at it, studying the curve of his lips. I shake my head and focus my attention back on the bowl of ramen, hiding my face in the steam.
“I forgot they had a jukebox!” Peyton says, standing. “I’m going to put in a few quarters. You better like the Beach Boys.” While Peyton walks away, a girl sneaks out from behind the counter and sits in his seat.
She has long, jet-black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail with red string. A pair of UFO earrings dangle from her ears. She’s wearing a worker’s apron with the lucky-cat logo on it.
“Hey, is your friend single?” she whispers.
I peer back at Peyton, who’s still over by the jukebox.
“Um, yeah,” I stutter.
“He’s cute. Do you think he’d give me his number?” she asks.
I think about all that Peyton has done for me the last few days. Maybe this could be my way of repaying him. His words echo in my ear, “What are friends for?”
“You know what? He’s actually free tomorrow evening,” I say slowly, giving the girl a knowing look.
A minute later, Peyton comes back. The girl giggles and hurries back into the kitchen. “What was that about?” Peyton chuckles, sitting back down.
“Oh, nothing,” I tease. “I just scored you a date tomorrow night.”
“What?” Peyton coughs, choking on his bite.
“Yeah, that waitress asked if you were single. She’s really cute.” I explain.
“Why would you do that?” Peyton asks.
“Why are you mad?” I return. “You should be happy.”
The chef slides the check across the counter. Peyton angrily digs out a wad of cash from his wallet and slams it down onto the check. He grabs his coat and storms out to the car.
I sit there awkwardly as “I Get Around” by the Beach Boys starts playing.
. . .
“So,” I begin, opening the car door and sliding inside. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“Not tonight-not right now,” Peyton grumbles, massaging his face.
“She really was cute. And she seemed nice,” I say softly.
“Then why didn't you ask her out?” Peyton mumbles.
“Because she didn't ask about me; she asked about you!” I snap. “I still don’t understand why you’re so upset about this!”
Silently, Peyton turns the key into the ignition and pulls out onto the road.
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